


Troubadour

by flowerfan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Addiction, Brief references to homophobia, Inspired by Rocketman, M/M, Recovery, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 21:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19259713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerfan/pseuds/flowerfan
Summary: Contrary to what one might think from riding in his car, Crowley did listen to music other than Queen.Or, what happens when a soft-hearted, music loving demon witnesses the rise and fall of a star.





	Troubadour

Contrary to what one might think from riding in his car, Crowley did listen to music other than Queen. And contrary to the vibe Aziraphale often gave off (and his comments about be-bop, which never failed to irritate Crowley, which was after all the reason Aziraphale made such comments), Aziraphale did listen from time to when when Crowley raved about his latest discovery.

But only once had Crowley dragged him to an actual rock concert. Sure, they had attended shows and performances of various types over the many, many years they had spent on Earth, always willing to stick their noses into something that might prove to be entertaining, or even inspirational. But until one day in 1970, Aziraphale had remained blissfully ignorant of what actual attendance at a more popular modern music venue might be like.

“Trust me, you’re going to be glad you were here,” Crawley said, adjusting his sunglasses as they made their way into the busy club. “It’s his third show this week, and people are going crazy for him.”

Aziraphale had grown used to trusting Crowley, at least where diversions were concerned, and he had been promised a lunch at the Brown Derby in exchange, so he went along. He had even allowed Crowley to dress him for the event, and was wearing period-appropriate white pants with absurdly wide bottoms, white leather heeled boots, and an off-white denim jacket over a low necked cotton shirt. Crowley was wearing sinfully tight black jeans, a dark red silk shirt with broad lapels, and a black vest with fringe on the bottom. He looked rather dashing, although Aziraphale would never tell him so. It would just go to his head.

The crowd was clearly excited about the opening performer, and within a little while Aziraphale could see why. The man on stage seemed shy at first, performing his first song with his head down most of the time, but as he relaxed the music he was playing became almost miraculous. The amount of energy and emotion pouring out of him into the audience practically had them levitating. Aziraphale couldn’t help give the man just a little boost when he flung his feet up into onto the air, hands still furiously moving over the piano keys.

“I told you,” Crowley said, yelling into Aziraphale’s ear. “Elton John’s going to be a superstar. And we were here to see it!”

Crowley lingered after the final number. He spouted some line about being with music management, and sauntered up to the young performer without any trouble. Aziraphale trailed along behind him, listening intently. He didn’t think Crowley would do anything to harm Elton, not when Crowley was so enamored of his music, but temptation was Crowley’s job, after all.

Elton seemed overwhelmed by all the attention, friends and strangers alike fawning over him and pushing drinks into his hands. Aziraphale wondered how many of them just wanted something from the rising star, wanted to get a little something for themselves out of Elton’s astronomical success. One fellow with a Scottish accent seemed particularly suspicious so Aziraphale gave him a bit of a push, encouraging him to leave Elton alone, at least for now.

Aziraphale watched carefully as Crowley chatted with Elton, flashing his brilliant smile and patting him enthusiastically on the back. Crowley’s pleasure in the young man seemed genuine, and the way Elton was smiling shyly behind his oversized glasses indicated that Crowley’s attention was welcomed. When Elton suggested Crowley come along to a party, Aziraphale felt a spark of something he refused to acknowledge and stepped forward, putting a proprietary hand on Crowley’s arm without even realizing it.

“Thank you, but we’ve got plans tomorrow, have to be up early and all. So sorry, maybe another time.”

“What are you going on about, what plans?” Crowley grumbled as Aziraphale tugged him out of the club onto the street. 

“You're taking me to lunch,” Aziraphale replied, fully aware that this wasn’t a very good answer, as even he didn’t eat lunch any earlier than noon.

“I wasn’t going to tempt him with anything,” Crowley said, pouting. “I just wanted to talk to him. He’s a genius. Do you know he taught himself to play the piano at age four?”

And that’s plenty tempting enough, Aziraphale thought. “Perhaps we’ll look him up when he returns to England,” he said. “He can’t stay in America forever.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

They did in fact look up Elton John, many years later, at a time when acquiring tickets to his concerts would have been near impossible if they were mere humans. Crowley worked his magic and got them backstage (he tempted a roadie - they are incredibly easy to bribe; Crowley hardly exerted himself).

Once again Aziraphale stood back a few steps and let Crowley have a chance to chat up the star. He watched as Crowley tried to charm him, pulling his usual slouch and grin routine, but this time Elton hardly seemed to notice. Aziraphale didn’t always pay that much attention to the progress of time, but now that he focused on it, it seemed that Elton had aged far more than the fifteen or so years since they last saw him. He didn’t look healthy at all. 

Crowley continued to follow the singer’s career, often dropping little bits of news about him into their conversations. But it was Aziraphale who saw the headlines one day, a tabloid crowing about Elton’s downfall.

“Did you do this?” Aziraphale thrust the newspaper at Crowley. He knew even before the hurt expression spread across Crowley’s face that the demon had no part in it. Apparently after many years of abusing drugs and alcohol, Elton John had checked himself into a rehab facility.

“I actually thought you might have done it,” Crowley replied, his face a neutral mask behind his sunglasses.

“What, made him a cocaine addict?” Aziraphale asked, taken aback.

“No. Encouraged him to try to quit.”

That night Aziraphale did some research. Among other things, he learned that the Scottish man had reinserted himself into Elton John’s life somewhere along the way, and that the press had been very hard on Elton, even as he became one of Earth’s most enormously successful rock stars. And what he learned about Elton’s family, well, that was perhaps even worse. The poor man was starved for love.

“Crowley?”

Crowley was stretched out on Aziraphale’s couch, having fallen asleep after drinking most of a very good bottle of red. “Hmm? What is it, angel?”

“I want to go to Chicago.”

Crowley blinked his yellow eyes at him, and nodded in understanding. “I’ll book the tickets.”

Aziraphale and Crowley spied on Elton John for a few days before taking any action, trying to get the lay of the land and figure out how to help. Aziraphale refused to let Crowley alert the singer to their presence – Elton didn’t know them from, well, Adam, and the rehab facility was certainly not going to let two fans in to see him. 

“If we can’t even talk to him, can’t you just miracle him better?” Crowley finally asked, frustrated, as he paced the small space between the bed and the dresser in their cramped hotel room.

“It wouldn’t work for long,” Aziraphale replied. “Your kind invented addiction, you should know.”

Crowley looked offended, but continued to throw out suggestions. Finally they came up with a workable plan, something Crowley said about creativity sparking the thought in Aziraphale’s mind.

The next day, however, before they could begin to put their plan into action, they saw a familiar man with large eyeglasses sitting on the sidewalk outside the rehab center. Elton looked even worse than the last time they saw him, head in his hands, shoulders quietly shaking.

“Zira,” Crowley hissed. “We have to do something. If he leaves now…”

“I told you, we can’t _make_ him stay.”

“There has to be something we can do. Please, think of something.”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, and down at himself. Crowley was wearing his usual black get-up, while Aziraphale had on one of his favorite white coats and a tartan vest. They looked presentable enough.

He squared his shoulders, took Crowley’s hand tightly in his own, and began walking down the road.

“Azira – Aziraphale, what are you-”

“Shush, dear. Just keep walking. Try to look happy.”

Aziraphale let himself imagine that he was going for a weekend stroll with his beau, his beau that he is absolutely allowed to walk hand in hand with down the street, regardless of narrow-minded human views. As they passed the dejected man on the sidewalk, Aziraphale swung their arms a little, to make sure he got the point across. 

Finally, when they reached the end of the block, he let himself look back. Elton John had risen from the sidewalk and was walking into the rehab center. 

Crowley tugged him close, their hands still entwined, and whispered in his ear. “Good job, angel.”

Aziraphale shivered.

The next day Aziraphale impersonated a piano tuner, and made sure that the creaky old piano in the abandoned music therapy room understood that it was now the very best piano that ever played a tune, and in turn it assured him that the next time Elton came by, it would do its best to inspire him. For his part, Crowley paid a visit to Elton’s long time friend and writing partner Bernie Turpin, and gave him just the encouragement he needed to visit Elton without further delay.

They kept an eye on things for a little while more, and then went home. “Can’t fix his whole life for him,” Crowley mumbled. Aziraphale thought he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone.

“We can’t,” he agreed. “But I think he’s going to be okay.”

“You do?” Crowley looked oddly vulnerable.

“I do.” 

Aziraphale didn’t understand what it was about this particular man that so endeared him to Crowley. He felt it too, but not the way Crowley did. In the meantime, regardless of what he told Crowley, he continued to follow the news about Elton John, and send a little flutter of grace his way every so often.

As for things between him and Crowley, well, after that day in Chicago, Crowley decided that holding hands with Aziraphale on their walks through St. James Park was the least he could do to support the LGBT community in London. And Aziraphale wholeheartedly agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> As you can all probably guess, I recently saw Rocketman. I couldn't help but imagine how Crowley might go all out in his fanboy-ing, up to and including becoming really worried if something went wrong. I loved the movie, but it made me very sad.
> 
> (The facts about Elton John in this story are based on real events, including the part about Elton John almost leaving rehab, which he describes in a 1992 interview, saying he "tried to run away twice: 'I packed my suitcase on the first two Saturdays and I sat on the sidewalk and cried. I asked myself where I was to run, ‘Do you go back and take more drugs and kill yourself, or do you go to another centre because you don’t quite like the way someone spoke to you here?’")
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


End file.
